


We Are the Normal

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simo and Fabi have an unusual way of preparing for their doubles matches--and remembering their opponents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are the Normal

  


He'd started collecting for it about eighteen months ago. Realising that he wasn't going to beat many people on the tennis courts, he'd decided to find another way to beat them. It was full of insight and incisive commentary, and had helped him to prepare for many matches—prepare for losing them, more often than not, but at least he did it with flair. In fact, he thought, it was his duty. His sense of style was, if he said so himself, second to none; therefore it was his responsibility to record his invaluable opinion so that the next generation of Italian superstars did not suffer as he had. It occurred to him, from time to time, that the next generation of Italian superstars might not actually ever play any of these people whose appearance he was dissecting, but he pushed that troublesome thought aside.

In January, Fabio had stuck his oar in—oh, sorry, what was it? 'Given Simone the benefit of his input', that's right. The folder had subsequently expanded with rapdity. It was at Wimbledon, however, whilst whiling away a rainy afternoon in front of Top Gear repeats that the Tennis Cool Wall had come into existence. Potito, strolling into their room that Friday evening to steal Simone's hair gel, had rolled his eyes at them, but Fabio had been undeterred. It was a work of genius, he declared. The whole of the ATP would be fighting to get in the 'sub zero' section as soon as word got out.

Word, however, had never got out. No matter how often Simone and Fabio had accidentally dropped it into conversation, no-one had seemed remotely interested, never mind beguna bickering over where they would be placed. Undeterred, Simone and Fabio persisted—they knew that, one day, history would recommend them for the innovators they were. In the meanwhile, they continued to bewilder hotels by their requests on checking in. No longer were hot tubs or floor-to-ceiling mirrors their first priority (although the latter was still an essential)—no, what they needed now from their room was a large, empty wall. Their Cool Wall was tended carefully throughout each tournament until it came time for the circus to pack up and move on to the next one, when the cards were all carefully filed away for posterity.

~*~

  


Fabio held the hole punch to Berlocq's card, and studied it contemplatively. Simone, mistaking the look of concentration for one of constipation offered a Dulcolax, but his hand was swatted away. His idle deliberation over his naked chest (it was probably time he got Fabi to wax it again) was interrupted by Fabio's melodramatic declaration that he didn't actually think he could go through with this. Simone, turning a confused look on him, pointed out that a hole punch really wasn't _that_ complicated. Fabio looked wounded, and explained that, actually, he meant the match. He didn't think he could go through with the match—how could he possibly play when ….that was across the net from him?!

Potito's bland suggestion that they could play blindfolded was met with a matching glare from both of them; Simone muttering that of course Poto wouldn't realise how much it would mess up their hair. Potito smirked, and pointed out that Fabio's beard was looking unkempt.

'We'll have to just look at Rosol instead,' suggested Simone.  
'That might work, he's not _too_ bad,' agreed Fabio.  
'You won't get the ball in court anyway,' muttered Potito.

  


~*~

  


They had missed practice on Friday morning—Simone had decided his sleep was marginally more important; he'd noticed what were threatening to be bags under his eyes the day before. Also, he'd taken Fabio out drinking and for karaoke after his humiliating loss to Berdych (and spent the whole night gleefully rubbing it in), so he really did need to catch up on his beauty sleep. When Potito arrived a mere thirty seconds before room service brought up their lunch (it was like he knew, they didn't have a clue how he did it), they were studying that afternoon's opponents' cards in dismay.

While Potito hoovered up three sandwiches, two sausage rolls and four small things that called themselves pizzas but weren't even close, Simone and Fabio nibbled half-heartedly at cucumber sticks and bemoaned their forthcoming fate. This was even worse than the first round, they agreed, as this time both opponents were unerringly harsh on the eye.

'What if it rubs off on us?' cried Simone.  
'Like some kind of ugly-by-osmosis!' wailed Fabio.  
'These pizzas are revolting,' muttered Potito.

  


~*~

  


They were first up on Sunday, which meant an early start—playing at eleven meant getting up at seven, in order to ensure sufficient time for the necessary ablutions. The coffee that Potito brought was snatched gratefully, before Simone and Fabio returned their attentions to their reflections—Simone frowning as his curls refused to behave, and Fabio contorting his jaw into strange arrangements as he trimmed his goatee to perfection. It threatened to degenerate into an undignified shoving match when Fabi elbowed Simone for hogging his mirror-space, but Potito's carefully drawn line of shaving foam down the middle of the mirror and stern admonitions to them to behave themselves, as he couldn't deal with them on an empty stomach had them subsiding into sulky silence.

Potito picked up today's opponents, and reminded Simone of the time Malisse had hounded him for a date; pointing out that if Simo asked him out today, they might let him and Fabi win. Simone squirted shaving foam on Potito's head, and sniffed disdainfully. Instead, he pointed at Knowles' card.

'We could set you up with him, if you like!' declared Simone.  
'Those ears would give you something to hold onto,' confirmed Fabio.  
'I'm going to kick you both in the balls,' muttered Potito.

  


~*~

  


By the time Thursday came around, and their twice-cancelled quarter-final match was actually played, Simone had had to avoid four calls from Malisse. He and Fabio had spent the two-day rain-delay indolently; mostly supine on their bed in pyjamas, admiring themselves and each other, idly flicking through the folder and picking people for imaginary dates (both good and nightmarish) and imaginary makeovers. (Simone yearned to get his hands on Roger Federer's hair, while they both agreed that it would take their combined efforts and a considerable amount of time to do anything with Fernando Verdasco.)

They had also made a more circumspect use of their time—namely on themselves. It was with freshly all-over waxed, moisturised and babysoft skin that they posed in their kits in front of the mirrors (and an unenthusiastic Potito) in an attempt to brace themselves for the match ahead. It was agreed (well, Poto's opinion didn't count) that they had never looked better. The opposition didn't stand a chance.

'We should just aim the ball at Lindstedt's face,' mused Simone.  
'It can hardly make it any worse!' agreed Fabio.  
'You two drive me crazy,' muttered Potito.

  


~*~

  


Because there had been so much time lost to rain, they had no rest before the semi-final—they were first up the following day. Their equanimity was greatly compromised by this minimal recuperation time—by the time they had finished with the post-match rituals, they barely had enough time for a massage before dinner—and so it was with a degree of crotchetiness that they prepared themselves in the morning. Potito was helping himself to their croissants when they emerged from the bathroom; Simone was painfully conscious of the fact that he had only had time for three passes of the razor in his wet shave instead of his habitual five, and Fabi had had to settle for dry shampoo as there was no hot water left.

It was with some trepidation, then, that they studied their forthcoming opponents. While they agreed that, ridiculous socks aside, Petzschner actually showed some potential, it was Melzer that caused almost physical pain; his pink-lipsticked face leering threateningly at them as Fabio morosely picked the raisins out of his muesli.

'It's like someone took all his features and _scrinched_ them together right in the middle of his face,' said Simone.  
'I'm actually a little bit scared,' admitted Fabio.  
'I don't know how I put up with you,' muttered Potito.

  


~*~

  


With such minimal preparation, it was inevitable that they would lose. It was, however, with a degree of relief rather than disappointment that the bottle of grappa was passed around that evening. Yes, they had missed out on a Grand Slam final—possibly even a title—but, more importantly than that, they had escaped having to play Mariusz Fyrstenberg. Simone wasn't sure his folder was up to containing such horrors, and he certainly didn't want to have _that_ face on his Wall, Cool or otherwise.

Fabio was swigging directly from the bottle and dancing precariously on the bed to 'YMCA' when Simone noticed that Poto's face bore the unmistakeable look it held when he was trying to work something out. After some considerable effort, he managed a slurred query as to whether or not Simone and Fabio were in The Folder.

'Of course we are—we all are! Even you,' beamed Simone.  
'We're all on the wall, too. You're always easy to place, look!' bounced Fabio.  
'I think I hate you,' muttered Potito.

  



End file.
